


Walking Around in Our Summertime Clothes

by dadvans



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Hale Family Feels, M/M, Multi, intentional ooc, there's a plot in there somewhere, werewolves on acid
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-16
Updated: 2012-09-16
Packaged: 2017-11-14 09:13:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/513645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dadvans/pseuds/dadvans
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“So you're telling me a blue moon brings on acid-like hallucinations," Stiles says,  "and you need a trip sitter for werewolves?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Walking Around in Our Summertime Clothes

  
  
With summer comes warm weather, and with warm weather comes open windows, and with open windows comes Derek Hale.  This is the lesson that Stiles learns as soon as the first heat wave hits Beacon Hills the summer after junior year.  He keeps his window open to let the hour or so of cool air in, and in blows Derek who can apparently wake him up with a stare.  
  
“What the shit, Derek?”  Stiles stage whispers as soon as his vision comes into focus.  He stops reaching for the baseball bat idly leaning against his bed.  
  
“It’s not safe to leave your window open,” Derek says.  He drags a finger along the windowsill as if he’s claiming territory.  
  
“Why, so people like you can’t stalk me?”  Stiles replies, wiping at his eyes.  Cold sweat has bud and settled all over his skin, and he pulls a thin sheet around him like a shroud.  Derek doesn’t say anything, just keeps his hand on the sill posturing _mine, mine, mine_.  Stiles sniffs.  “Listen, you tell my dad that my life hangs in the balance if he doesn’t buy an air conditioner, and I will start closing my window at night.”  
  
Derek’s face twitches, and Stiles can see the gears rotating behind his eyes, an internal battle going on caused by Derek’s crippling lack of social norms.  Eventually he tries, “It’s my job to make sure you’re safe.”  
  
Stiles sighs.  “No, it’s not, Derek.  I have a baseball bat.  I have a gun even, and if you like, I can sleep with it under my pillow.  The sheriff of this town even sleeps in a very close proximity to my bedroom!  I’m not a wolf, so that means I’m out of your jurisdiction.”  
  
“You run with wolves,” Derek says.  “That’s good enough for them, so it’s a good enough reason for me to look out for you.”  
  
Derek doesn’t clarify who _them_ pertains to, and Stiles is pretty sure at this point he’s making stuff up.  Still though, creeper factor aside, to be looked after is something new and novel and makes his insides feel gently tugged out and unraveled.  
  
“Are you just going to haunt my window all night then?” Stiles asks, voice wavering and sleep begging to take back over with the fall of adrenaline.  
  
“I’ll do what I have to, to ensure your safety,” Derek replies.  Stiles rolls his eyes and crashes back onto his bed facing away from Derek.  He doesn’t hear him leave until the first threads of sun wake him a few hours later.  
  
The next night of the heat wave, Stiles leaves his window open.  Derek comes back.  
  
  
  
The routine continues through the third week of June and all of July.  The first week of August a warm front hits, and Stiles can finally sleep with his window closed and not suffocate to death in the sweltering heat.  Something in him itches though, and he can’t shake the feeling that someone, namely Derek, is standing guard outside.  
  
“Do you ever sleep?” Stiles asks the week after, when Derek crawls through his window and settles onto his floor.  
  
“Creature of the night,” Derek reminds him, opening up a book.  That should be a hint that Derek is full of shit, a hint Stiles should take, but he likes being kept safe.  He likes being kept.  
  
August starts coming to an end, and sometimes Stiles finds himself praying for the heat that day to be relentless, checking the forecast for excuses.  Without fail, the days remain scalding, and the nights too muggy and warm.  Stiles falls asleep with eyes on his back every night.  It’s starting to become a problem.  
  
Derek, for once, fixes it.  
  
“I need to ask a favor of you,” Derek says, coming in through his window one leg at a time.  Stiles rolls over, already in bed, intestines tied into knots.  
  
“Yeah?” He asks a little breathless.  
  
“Next week there’s going to be a blue moon,” Derek says.  Stiles has heard about it; even humans seem to get excited about an extra full moon.  Stiles just thinks it must suck to have the equivalent of your period twice in one month.  
  
“What, do you want me to keep my window closed, even if it gets above two hundred degrees?  I can’t make promises.”  
  
“No,” Derek says, looking at every part of the room apart from Stiles.  “I need you to babysit.”  
  
It takes Stiles a second.  “Babysit,” he repeats slowly.  
  
Derek looks like he’s having his dominance stripped from him, his chest deflated and eyes low.  He inhales sharply through his nose before continuing.  “Blue moons have a different effect on werewolves.  The wolf is at ease if it’s the second moon of the month, but also more in control.  If a human has not come to terms with their wolf, the blue moon forges that connection.  It also brings on a sensory overload, which while not dangerous to humans, can draw attention to the wolf if left unattended.  We can’t think, or act normally.”  
  
“Are you telling me that you get high during a blue moon?” Stiles slowly deciphers after getting past the fact that Derek thinks the way he usually acts is normal.  
  
Derek’s face scrunches in a way that is only vaguely attractive, and he clenches his fists.  “Yes.”  
  
“And you need a babysitter?” Stiles continues.  “You can’t just sit around watching Planet Earth and eating junk food like most stoners?”  
  
Derek’s blatant discomfort continues.  “It’s worse than that.  There are—hallucinations.  Synaesthesia, even.  With the change comes a sudden release of extra dopamine and serotonin.  Depending on the age of the wolf, it can be a very intense experience.”  
  
“Are you telling me a blue moon brings on acid-like hallucinations and you need a _trip sitter_ for _werewolves?_ ” Stiles asks.  It almost sounds like Derek’s telling a joke, and Stiles can’t tell which is more believable.  Derek flinches.  
  
“Listen, I feel like I’ve paid you enough favors this summer making sure you _stay alive despite yourself_ that I’m owed something in return,” he says, and it comes like a punch to the gut.  Stiles had begun considering Derek as some kind of knight in furry armor.  Something about spending every night making sure he was safe despite protests had come across as less pack obligation and more individual affection.  
  
“So you’re asking me to do this, only because you think I owe you a favor?”  Stiles asks, totally not desperate for clarification at all.  Derek doesn’t grace him with a direct reply.  
  
“I expect you at the house before sundown, Friday,” Derek says instead, before pulling out his book.  Conversation over apparently, and that’s that.  Stiles collapses back on his bed, but doesn’t sleep for another hour.  
  
  
  
Googling “Werewolf + Acid Trip + Blue Moon” doesn’t pull up any relevant results, just some really bad music from the seventies, so Stiles goes to the next best thing when preparing to trip sit a pack of high werewolves: Danny.  
  
“Danny, you’re a reliable source on all things illicit,” Stiles says over the phone, “Let’s say I’m babysitting some kids on acid this weekend.”  
  
“ _What_ ,” Danny says, followed by a sigh that intones _look at your life, look at your choices._  
  
“Listen, if there’s anyone in Beacon Hills that has experience doing this, _and_ willingly talks to me, it’s you.  I owe someone a favor.  Now just tell me what to do.”  
  
“Fine,” Danny says, and thank god he’s always had a soft spot for Stiles.  “People on acid are pretty harmless.  Everything they’re experiencing is like a slightly tweaked version of reality, so they keep themselves pretty entertained.  Just, I don’t know, take them to a park and keep them from walking into traffic.”  
  
Stiles hums to himself, wondering if he should tell Danny, _oh, bee-tee-dubs, they’re all_ werewolves.  
  
“Oh,” Danny continues after a second, “You burn a lot of calories on a trip, so bring like some oranges or something for the comedown, because they’ll probably get really hungry.”  
  
Stiles is going to be eaten alive.  
  
  
  
Stiles pulls up to the old Hale house late in the afternoon on Friday.  He has blankets in the passenger seat, per Danny’s advice, and steaks on ice in the back—once again per Danny’s advice, but also to be used in self-defense if necessary.  Derek, Erica, Isaac and Boyd are waiting outside.  He moves to get out of the jeep, but before he can even get his seatbelt off, they’re all climbing inside.  
  
“So I take it we’re not staying at the Hale House of Horrors for tonight’s shenanigans,” Stiles says dryly, and Derek looks like he’s going to smack him from the passenger side.  The other three have managed to squeeze themselves in the back, and he can see them in the rearview mirror trying not to laugh.  
  
“No,” Derek says, “Somewhere else.  I’ll give you directions as we go.”  
  
“You might as well blindfold me and drive yourself,” Stiles replies, rolling his head to the side with an annoyed glance.  He dangles the keys in Derek’s face until Derek pushes his hand away.  
  
“Just drive, Stiles.”  
  
“Wait, aren’t we waiting for Scott and Jackson?”  Stiles asks.  Not that they could fit, with three werewolves already stuffed in the back.  
  
“I asked Allison to take care of Scott, and Lydia to take care of Jackson,” Derek explains like Stiles is five.  “This is their first blue moon, they should be pretty easy to handle.  They’ll be subdued by the wolf, just like these three.”  
  
Stiles puts the key in the ignition, but pauses before turning over the engine.  “Wait, that means you—“  
  
“I’m going to be a handful,” Derek says with a terrifying grin.  “Now drive.”  
  
  
  
  
Stiles ends up pulling into a long driveway buried in the redwoods outside of Beacon County that leads to a cozy-looking cabin.  The clearing is wide enough to allow for a wide range of sky above them, and around the cabin is an overgrown lawn.  The property is huge, big enough to accommodate a much larger party than five people.  Everything Stiles notices about it is a puzzle piece for a much larger picture.  
  
“Derek,” he says slowly, “Is this your family’s cabin?”  
  
“It’s mine now,” he says, pulling the blankets out of the jeep with him.  
  
“Wait a minute.  Are you telling me you have a perfectly fine cabin in the woods that is not burnt out, or underground, but actually has livable qualities unlike anywhere else you manage to reside?”  If Stiles were one of Derek’s wolves, he would be downright pissed.  Why the hell would you live in an abandoned train station like the fucking Boxcar Children if you had an actual house?  
  
“Well,” Derek says with a tightness clipping his words, “It is hard, living where my family died, and being reminded of that on a daily basis.  But this house is a reminder of them being alive, because everything inside that house is waiting for them to come back, and for me that’s harder.”  
  
Something drops like a stone in Stiles’ stomach, and he remembers Danny saying, _whatever you do, don’t let them get sad.  If they get sad they_ stay _sad_ , and Derek looks like the poster child for depression right now, gazing morosely at the cabin the way he is.  Stiles wishes he could pick up all of his words and swallow them.  Instead he says, “So you bring your new family here instead.  Make new memories.”  
  
Derek nods, and his mouth quirks up a little bit, but then he slams the door to the jeep harder than any human ever could and walks the blankets over to the inundated lawn.  Stiles watches the way he calmly unfurls them, one on top of the other, only to have them mussed up immediately by Boyd tackling Erica.  She laughs loud enough to echo off the trees, and kicks up at him to no avail.  Isaac comes to her rescue, rushing Boyd from the side, arms around his waist, nipping at his ear.  All three of them end up tangled in each other, as they seem to be more often than not these days.  Derek casually sits by them on the edge of the blanket while they continue to wrestle.  Above them, the sun is beginning to set, and Stiles takes a second to appreciate the hues of pink and orange and purple across the unfolding scene.  He seats himself next to Derek quietly, as if the grass was made of eggshells, and tries to hold onto this moment as the five of them rapidly proceed into the night.  
  
  
  
The change comes quickly, and Stiles can immediately tell it’s stranger than usual.  Isaac, Erica and Boyd snarl as it hits their bodies like a freight truck, digging holes into the blanket and dirt underneath with their claws.  Their necks twist, their bones contort, their muscles convulse.  Derek shifts halfway as well, but manages it without a murmur.  Stiles is prepared to hightail it to the jeep, but silence descends on the four wolves instead of killer instinct.  
  
And then Erica starts giggling.  She tries to point one much sharper nail at the sky from where she lies, but instead curls up laughing into Isaac’s shoulder.  Isaac sputters for a second before joining in, and very soon all three of them have a severe case of the giggles.  It reminds Stiles of a different pack of animals entirely, and he saw _that_ episode of Buffy.  He fidgets and looks over to Derek, who is decidedly not laughing.  
  
Instead he is smiling, all teeth and very wide at Stiles, more rare than the moon itself.  A fang slips over his bottom lip like he doesn’t know how to control his face when it gets this expressive.  It is frankly unnerving.  
  
“Wanna play?”  He asks, with more of a motor mouth than even Stiles has ever had in his life.  “I can play fair.  Do you like tag?  We can play tag.  You can even be it first, I told you I can play fair.”  
  
And then he’s off, running into the woods.  Stiles vaguely remembers the way Derek had said he’d be a handful, and winces internally.  Derek’s wolf must be a downright _puppy_ when it gets the chance.  With a heavy sigh, Stiles pushes himself up and runs after Derek into the forest.  He gives one last glance at the other three.  Erica is laughing so hard she is crying, taking a claw to wipe the tears away and not minding the streak of blood that comes with it.  Boyd and Isaac are equally gasping for air.  Stiles shakes his head before letting them out of his sight.  
  
The moon lights up the forest, unnaturally bright, brighter than the night in the city.  There are meager, overrun trails he tries to stick to, listening for the sound of snapping twigs or leaves that might lead him to the Puppy Formerly Known as Derek.  He makes it probably a quarter of a mile in, and is jumping over a small creek when Derek sideswipes him out of nowhere.  They both fall into the bushes, the wind knocked out of Stiles as his back hits the ground.  He gasps sharply like he’s swallowing glass before looking up at Derek who is clearly still tweaked the fuck out.  
  
“I caught you!” He says proudly.  “I caught you and I won.”  
  
“I thought I was it,” Stiles says wearily, coughing.  Derek stills, looking upwards, with his body frequently twitching, bones creaking.  
  
“You were, bu-ut you took too long,” Derek replies, “So I decided to come after you instead.  And then I won.”  
  
“Congratulations,” Stiles says flatly.  “Would you like to go back?”  
  
“Never,” Derek says, “I like it out here, there are so many noises, it tastes wild, it tastes like blood, like my blood, the dirt and leaves and everything tastes like my blood, even you I can taste you I can taste you in the air and you taste like my blood and salt and is that fear because it tastes like your blood, fast and coppery, and don’t be afraid, we’re just having fun and aren’t you having fun?”  
  
Stiles can’t taste anything but his teeth, can’t hear anything but his own heart trying to pound through his ribcage.  He says, “I would probably be having more fun if I wasn’t stuck in a bush,” and is proud of how calmly it comes out.  
  
Derek pushes himself off of Stiles, and backs away slowly.  “Are you ready, are you ready to come find me again, okay, come find me!”  
  
He watches Derek run off again, completely abandoning the trail.  Stiles is lucky Finstock has him running so many suicides at summer practices, otherwise his lungs would be protesting much more than they already are.  
  
This time he abandons the trail when chasing Derek, instead relying on his fourth grade cub scout tracking skills.  It’s the brightest night of the year, so a turned leaf here, a scratch on some bark there are pretty easy to identify.  He’s sure he’s closing in on Derek this time; he’s getting closer to the sounds of erratic movement clawing its way through the woods.  But then he realizes that he isn’t getting closer to the noise, the noise is getting closer to him.  
  
He turns around just in time to watch Derek tackle him against the nearest tree.  It’s all very familiar (Stiles is used to having Derek shove him into things), except it’s like he’s told Derek _once more, with feeling!_  Derek’s wolf pounces with such enthusiasm, such uncontained joy, is so eager to have Stiles beneath him or on the hunt.  It makes late night bedroom feelings resurge in Stiles.  
  
“Pinned you again,” Derek says—or is it the Wolf?  Stiles can’t tell the two apart, isn’t sure where one begins or the other ends.  Whoever it is, awake in there and chasing him through the woods, looking down at him through half moon sanguine eyes, they seem hungry.  
  
“Did you—did you just quote Lion King at me?”  Stiles manages, but Derek has moved on, words falling from his mouth a mile a minute as he leans in close, traces his nose down Stiles’ neck past his shoulders and licking the crook of Stiles’ elbow with a tongue like a needle, saying words like, _salt, salt, amphetamine salt, I can see the molecules that dance to make your skin, human woven skin, but I can taste the bits of me that fell between the cracks._  
  
Stiles is pretty sure that this is the point in the night where he gets eaten alive, and he briefly thinks of the steaks out of reach in his jeep.  Maybe he could throw a stick and try to get Derek to fetch—or—or—Derek licks a long streak up his arm and buries his face in Stiles’ armpit and breathes deep.  Stiles hears, mumbled, “So many things, Stiles, you are so many things, so many new things I can smell and touch and hear right now, and why is one of those things afraid?”  
  
Derek’s face is all fur and unfamiliar ridges brought on by the change, brushing sharp against Stiles’ exposed arms.  It should be a reminder that Derek is probably about to eat him in three big, werewolf bites, but instead reminds him of how little he’s been touched, and how much he likes to be touched, especially by the guy who has watched him sleep every unbearable night this summer, the guy who throws him against things and weighs heavy against his body and his heart, who chases him through the woods with some kind of indistinct want.  
  
“I’m dead either way,” Stiles mutters.  
  
Derek isn’t holding him against the tree anymore, his near proximity just enough to keep Stiles pinned to it.  He looks up at Stiles grinning wide again, jaw jutting out clumsily like the action is unnatural to his face.  He moves in close, till he’s inches away from Stiles’ face, till his breath is hot on Stiles’ cheeks, till the light of the moon hits his features so he looks like wilderness personified, gorgeous and carnal.  “Says who, Stiles, you think I’m gonna eat you, think I’m gonna tear your heart out with my teeth, because I told you, I can be very good, and even when I’m not, when I’m not good and I’m not gentle, you’re the only one who can handle me, because you’re the only one I’ll let handle me.”  
  
Derek rolls back on his heels.  
  
“Come catch me,” he says, before racing off again through the brush, leaving Stiles to swelter in the heat of the moment.  
  
  
  
Derek doesn’t find him the third time, and it takes Stiles another half hour to track him down.  He follows a trail of overhead tree branches that have been ravaged and snapped until coming upon a clearing where Derek is sitting, arms wrapped around his knees with a looseness in his shoulders like he’s right at home.  When Derek sees him, Stiles could swear there’s a bit more clarity behind the low, red glow in his eyes than there was earlier.  
  
But then Derek opens his mouth and says, “I made you a leaf ball.  Out of all my favorite leaves,” and holds out a furry and clawed hand with a giant, soggy ball of leaves resting in the palm.  
  
Stiles manages to wheeze out a, “huh.  Okay.”  
  
“Come sit with me,” Derek says, turning his gaze back to the moon overhead.  It radiates on him like a spotlight.  Stiles walks over, shaky from chasing Derek around the woods, and practically collapses next to him.  Derek pats the ball of leaves into his hand without turning away from the sky.  
  
“Thanks,” Stiles says warily.  “You seem to have calmed down, uh, a bit.”  
  
“Hit my plateau,” Derek replies.  “The wolf likes to get re-acquainted with the world during the first hour or so, likes to remember how to stretch and feel.  The way the wolf sees everything can be overwhelming.”  
  
Stiles shouldn’t ask, but he’s Stiles and it’s pretty much expected of him at this point.  “So, back in the woods… was that just the wolf?  Getting acquainted?”  
  
“That was very much the both of us,” Derek says, and he’s _still smiling_ although fainter now, and Stiles briefly thinks that the world would be a much different place if there were more frequent blue moons; Derek being cheerful and direct would solve a lot of problems, for one.  
  
“Okay,” Stiles says with a slight warble in his voice.  He’s not going to take that subject much further, at least not while Derek is wolfed out and high, expressing his feelings with nature art.  
  
But he’s not going to completely reject any advances on Derek’s part, which is why he moves into the embrace when Derek wraps two, big arms around him and cuddles him hard against the forest floor.  In the morning there will be an awkward conversation and blackmail opportunities, but for now he lets Derek wash over him like a bucket of ice in the fade of summer swelter.  It’s that feeling from late June again, the shaky warmth of being kept by someone for the first time.  Derek says, “You taste nervous.  Or smell.  I’m not really sure anymore.”  
  
Stiles lets the uneasy laughter bubble out of him.  He doesn’t respond to Derek, worried that anything he might say could prompt Derek to start licking him.  His laughs dissolve into awkward giggles, which in turn become silence.  The night progresses in the small clearing as Stiles is spooned heavily against the ground.  Derek occasionally twitches at noises Stiles can’t hear, presses his hands, his face into the grass and breathes in the soil.  He still mutters infrequently and unintelligibly; Stiles is sure at one point he says, “Those trees have hands, Stiles.”  Stiles just hums and tries not to think about how hairy Derek’s arms are right now.  
  
Eventually Derek reaches a certain lucidity as the ground begins to feel wet with chill.  “Are you cold?”  
  
Stiles is half-asleep, but he’s having trouble feeling his feet.  “I’m good, I’ve got my werewolf blanket.”  
  
“We can go back now.  I can build a fire.”  Stiles is letting Derek nowhere near a fire, his track record with fires and homes is bad enough, though he can see the possible allure.    
  
“No fires.  Lots of blankets, definitely a maybe.”  
  
“Your blankets are probably in shambles right now,” Derek says, tracing random patterns on Stiles’ arm, gentle enough not to break skin.  “There’s a fireplace in the cabin.  I’ll even let you start it.  There’s more blankets too.”  
  
“Where are we going to get firewood?  Are you going to use your werewolf fangs to nibble down some timber?”  Stiles mumbles, hiding his face in the crook of Derek’s elbow.  
  
“Something like that,” Derek replies, breath hot against the back of Stiles’ neck before pushing himself away, getting up.  Stiles looks at his hand, fingers still curved around the ball of leaves Derek so lovingly squished together for him.  He puts it in his pocket and lets himself be pulled up.  
  
  
  
The walk back seems to take forever, without the running and chasing and Stiles fearing for his life.  Derek sometimes stops walking altogether, just pauses and stares in the distance.  At one point he tries to explain it, saying, “Sorry, that bush just came with me for a second.”  
  
At the cabin, Erica, Boyd and Isaac are very much alive and subdued, rolling around in what appears to be the shredded remains of Stiles’ blankets.  They all smile with half-lidded eyes, hair tousled and movements slow.  Erica seems the most excited to see them, giving Stiles a sympathetic nod and saying, “Oh, thank God, we thought he ate you.”  
  
“Just about,” Stiles replies as Derek drops to the ground, sending bits of fabric up into the air.  “For posterity’s sake maybe he should have.  Your alpha is a puppy.”  
  
“And for that, I’m making you chop firewood,” Derek says from the ground, grabbing at bits of blanket.  
  
Stiles groans. “Why can’t one of you do it?”  
  
“Four high werewolves without depth perception wielding axes,” Boyd says flatly, “It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that might be a Bad Idea.”  
  
“The cardio will warm you up,” Isaac continues, like he can hear the bite of wind settling itself under Stiles’ skin.  
  
“Maybe if you three hadn’t destroyed the blankets I brought for your leisure,” Stiles replies, and Erica throws a handful of tattered blanket in his face to rub in how little she cares about his feelings.  The others giggle, and Stiles realizes that Derek doesn’t have a pack, he has a litter of puppies, the annoying kind of puppies who poop in your shoes and eat your couch cushions.  He slowly rubs at his face in despair.  
  
Derek eventually concedes, directs the other three to find larger branches they can improvise a fire with, and brings Stiles in the cabin to find blankets for his persistently annoying, temperature-sensitive human body.  The cabin is slightly warmer, having retained the heat of the day.  The electricity isn’t on, but Stiles can see through the dusty beams of moonlight working their way in through the windows that the place is sprawling, made for a big family.  There’s a large common room, what appear to be a few bedrooms and a bathroom down a hallway, a kitchen through an open arch, and a loft hanging above him.  The mantle in the common room is huge, pieced together with rounded rocks and a mouth wide enough to hold a bonfire that could keep the whole house warm.  Something in Stiles sinks when his gaze lingers there, when he thinks about how alive this place must have been when the entire Hale family would come out here, run the woods together, huddle together by the hearth like some innocent thing that could never be their end; he thinks about how something so alive could keep Derek away, hide in the ashes of his home instead because at least it didn’t remind him so much.  
  
His thoughts are interrupted by the sound of frantic shuffling.  He jogs over to the bedroom where Derek disappeared to find Derek on the bed, rolling around on one of the blankets, muttering,  “I forgot how soft this one is.”  
  
This will forever be the strangest night of Stiles’ life, he is pretty sure.  
  
There is an open cupboard on the other side of the bed, from which Stiles manages to gather an obscene amount of blankets.  He’s tossing bundle upon bundle, with the addition of pillows onto a thick rug in the common area when the rest of the pack stumbles in with arms full of thick branches.  Erica is wearing a crown of twigs, and Isaac and Boyd have suspicious amounts of mud caked on their faces like war paint.    
  
“I’m queen of the forest,” Erica explains with a flattered smile.    
  
Stiles ends up building a large fire with the branches, yellowing pieces of newspaper and a lighter that Boyd claims to carry around for “survival purposes.”  The three seem completely enamored by it, watching the way flames find the sap on the branches, oranges and yellows licking and bubbling and popping against the boughs.  Eventually Derek joins them, blanket tucked into his arm in a way that screams deeper meaning.  
  
“My mother,” he says when he sits next to Stiles and Stiles won’t stop staring at him.  The effects of the change are starting to wane, human features becoming more prevalent as the ridges and sharpness of wolfdom fade into lines of another kind.  
  
Stiles ends up shirking his sitter duties and falling asleep quickly after that, leaning into Derek and weary from the night.  He wakes up once to see Derek in the flicker of dawn and fading embers, almost entirely human and rubbing patterns into the floor.  
  
“What are you doing?”  Stiles asks sleepily.  
  
“Saying goodbye,” Derek replies softly, “Go back to sleep.”  
  
When he wakes up again it must almost be noon.  Erica, Isaac and Boyd are asleep across the room, curled into each other.  Stiles finds himself underneath blankets facing Derek, who is at best three inches away from his face with arms snug around Stiles’ waist.  It is entirely soothing and terrifying all at once.  
  
Derek opens an eye.  He looks grumpy.  It is very unsurprising.  
  
“Are we not talking about this,” Stiles says softly and swiftly, “We don’t have to talk about this.”  
  
Derek grunts noncommittally.  He finally says, “Okay.”  
  
“Okay,” Stiles repeats, but Derek still doesn’t move away.  
  
“Thanks,” Derek says, “for last night.”  
  
Stiles never thought that Derek ever showing gratitude would be as uncomfortable as it actually is.  He wriggles slightly, and can feel a soreness coming on from running through the woods.  “No problem?  Thanks for making sure no one came through my window to murder me all summer.  I guess we’re even.”  
  
“I didn’t do that so that we would be even,” Derek says mildly.  
  
“Oh,” Stiles says, because something catches in his chest and oh.  
  
Derek seems to be at a loss for words, mouth an uneven, tight-pressed line.  After a beat he moves his hand from Stiles’ side to the back of his head and presses a kiss to his brow.  It is uncharacteristically gentle and comforting and wonderful.  
  
“You should,” Derek says with a sigh, “you should go.  To your car, I mean.  And get me a steak.  Because I am really hungry.  And I know you have steak in there.”  
  
“I,” Stiles says, wide-eyed, “Okay.  Do you want me to uh, should I cook it?  The steak.”  
  
“No,” Derek says, “If you so much as brown a side of it, I will tear out your throat and eat that instead.”  
  
It’s nice to know that some things haven’t changed.  Derek nods and then rolls away from him, stealing the blankets.  Stiles all but runs out to the jeep to grab the cooler, wishing he had brought a second set of clothes so he didn’t feel so crumpled and unpleasant.  The others are probably feeling thousands times worse, he reminds himself, and feels better coming back inside to hear Isaac’s bones snapping back into place in a stretch.  Even Derek ends up eating his steak raw in the fetal position under his mountain of blankets.    
  
The mess they’ve made of everything is decidedly best left to be cleaned up another day, and the drive home is miserable like everyone is recovering from a night of binge drinking.  When they pull up to the Hale house, Derek remains unreadable outside of his werewolf hangover, but even Stiles is wondering how much longer it will be until Derek leaves the house to crumble to the foundation and move forward.  
  
Erica, Isaac and Boyd shuffle out of the car without thanks and look like they’re going to go find a good place to die.  Derek doesn’t move.  
  
“Hey,” Stiles says, “I, um.  About--”  
  
“I thought we weren’t talking about it,” Derek says.  
  
“We aren’t!”  Stiles maintains, fingers nervously tapping against the steering wheel.  “Just, uh.  See you tonight?”  
  
Derek smiles, uncontrollable and toothy all over again, eyebrows furrowing like a wince.  “Yeah.  See you tonight.”  
  
Derek drags himself out of Stiles’ car, walking like someone took a crowbar to his kneecaps.  He doesn’t turn around or bother to wave, and Stiles sits there for something like two minutes just _waiting_ before he shakes his head and pulls out down the long drive.  When he gets home his dad is in the kitchen, clearly having been anticipating him with a look that screams, _I don’t want to know_.  Stiles can only offer him a shrug before heading to his room.  He needs a new change of clothes, he needs a shower—he needs like ten showers.  He plans to do all of these things.  But first, he opens his window.  
  
It’s the end of summer, but the weather is still warmer than bearable.  With warm weather comes open windows, and with open windows comes cool air, and that night with the cool air comes Derek Hale.  
  


**Author's Note:**

> i am [hellomorningzoo](http://hellomorningzoo.tumblr.com/) on tumblr.


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